Page 12 of Captured By the Highland Devil
The front room was long with staircases at either end, in the middle were a set of corridors that led to a place she could not see. Ruben took her to the left staircase, and she followed him up to a second and then a third level.
The hallway was massive, its walls were worn stone with wooden inlays here and there; beautiful rich wood with intricate paneling that held large, ornate portraits. Some wooden panels had shields, broken swords and even pieces of armor.
Is it a constant memory of the wars they’ve been through... or a testament to this victory?
The wing he led her to had five rooms spaced on either hall. He stopped at the left side where only two doorways stood. He pulled a door in and stepped aside for her to enter and when she did, another wave of awe washed over her.
Her room had a large four-poster bed against the back wall, far away from the row of windows on the north side. Heavy, light blue velvet swaths hung above it, draping down on each side ready to close the occupant of the bed in its velvety warmth.
Across from the bed was a fireplace, that while empty, she could see how a blazing fire from it would light and warm the room. Most of the room had fresh rushes but near the fireplace were two plush chairs with a blue rug beneath them. The furniture there was ancient but exquisite, in good condition, and well cared for.
Her throat felt tight.
It was lovely and such a stark contrast to their room back at her manor house. Her father’s home was a crumbling pile of stone, filled with dusty, moth-eaten, musty things.
“Is it to yer likin’?” Ruben asked.
She nodded jerkily. “It’s…it’s magnificent.” Paige admitted. “I’d once thought me home was luxurious, but yer home puts mine to shame. I ken it’s nae a competition, but I realize the difference.”
Ruben leaned on the wall, crossed his arms and cocked a boot to the wall. “And how do ye figure that?”
Resting a hand on the wall, Paige replied. “Ye take care of yer home because ye prize it and ye ken it’s a home ye want futuregenerations to have. Me faither cares nothin’ for our home. I daenae believe he plans for days ahead.”
With a derisive snort, Ruben pushed away from the wall with a scornful grunt. “Of course nae.”
Frowning, Paige asked, “What do ye mean by that?”
He pivoted to her, his face softening with something that faintly resembled pity. “I daenae think ye ken this but there is a recurrin’ jest around the rest of the lairds that yer faither does nae ken his head from a headless chicken.”
His meaning made her heart plummet, “The other lairds think me faither is weak?”
“And foolish, presumptuous, easy to manipulate and very reactionary instead of wisely seekin’ opportunities to increase his wealth or his lairdship,” Ruben said. “He is also a spendthrift and irresponsible.”
His frank words hit Paige like blistering catapults. It did not feel good to know her father was the laughingstock of the rest of the Scottish nobility. “I’d ask ye what ye meant by all of that…” She slowly sat in one of the chairs. “But I doubt I’d get an answer.”
Pushing away from the wall, Ruben said, “Maisie will come and find ye when it’s time for supper.”
She did not say a word when he left the room and when he was gone, she looked around the room, to examine it.
Everything in the room was so rich, combining to make a room fit for a princess. She ran her fingers over the beautiful old wardrobe and looked down on the thread for the rug.
Was it English—or from the East? Either way, it looked exquisite. The whole room was gilded—a gilded prison.
There were two doors in her rooms, one that led to the hallway and another one that she assumed led to a washroom.
It was thick and massive, as well as heavy to push open, but she did so. Her assumptions were right; it was a washroom with two basins and on stands and a wide bathtub that stood over a bed of unlit coals.
A second door was to the end of the room, and she pushed it in, stepped one foot in and stopped. The bedroom inside was a vivid counterpoint to hers. While her room had a faint feminine air, this one was starkly masculine.
His bed was wide with dark sheets, the shutters in his windows open while his curtains fluttered. There was a chest of drawers to the side, baskets were placed here and there but what drew her attention was the left wall.
“He really is a warmonger…”
Weapons of every size and shape were on the walls. She counted halberds, maces, swords and daggers of all sizes and shapes. Some of the blades were straight, some were wickedly curved with leather handles and jeweled pommels.
His fireplace was banked, a set of chairs and a short, squat table were before it. There were no carpets, and the floorboards were swept off the rushes.
There was nothing sentimental in the room, there was nothing to show any attachment to anyone or anything.
